Line in the Sand
by Verdreht
Summary: Tony's little experiment: he needed to see where Steve drew the line. He needed to find the line to toe it, toe it to cross it, and cross it to redraw it so that Steve might finally act on the feelings Tony was sure he had. Tony/Steve slash
1. Chapter 1

It all started with an casual and perfectly harmless compliment.

Steve had been in the gym, laying into another punching bag like it had slept with his sister when Tony had wandered in. He'd been on his way to the bridge when his Steve-y Senses started tingling, and he'd understandably made a detour. Next to a couple minutes watching Steve tenderize inanimate objects in a tight shirt and sweatpants that he somehow wore more provocatively than most people wore expensive lingerie—

Make that _all_ people.

—Fury could wait.

Slipping in, he leaned back against the wall by the doorway and contented himself to enjoy the view.

He'd made it all of about three seconds before shooting his mouth off.

"Nice ass, Cap'n," he said, loud enough that he was sure Steve (and Clint, lifting weights in the corner) would hear. Did the buns of steel come standard with the superpowers, or was it an add-on package?"

The unintentional double-entendre made him smirk, a smirk which promptly grew as Steve tensed and threw a punch so hard it sent the punching bag sailing across the room into the far wall, knocking over a weight bench in the process.

When Steve turned around, his face was red from chin to the very tips of his ears. Tony knew some of it was probably from the exercise, but he was gonna take credit for most of it.

It amused him to no end how, after fighting Nazis and aliens and various psycho- and sociopathic evil-doers, Steve still managed to get so flustered over the little things. It was probably best the bad guys hadn't figured it out; they were so busy trying out their death rays and goons and all that other nonsense, ignorant to the one true weakness of Captain America:

Shameless flirting.

As endearing and amusing as the near-nuclear blushing and the awkward stammering were, though, that wasn't why he did it. He flirted because he genuinely liked the guy – no, more than _liked_ him – and he was…testing the waters. Steve was always so uptight, and he looked out for everyone. It was hard to tell where he stood on anything, or even how he'd act on where he stood.

In simple terms, Steve was probably one of the bravest and most intelligent men Tony knew (not that he would tell him that; at least not directly), but in the realm of social interaction…

He was hopeless.

Cue Tony's little experiment. He needed to see how far he could go, where Steve would draw the line. He needed to be able to find the line to toe it, toe it to cross it, and cross it to redraw it so that Steve could finally stop holding back and act on the feelings that Tony was, if not certain, then pretty _damn_ confident he had.

"What?" Steve said. It looked like he couldn't quite decide whether he wanted to be more indignant or mortified, though the former started nosing ahead when he glanced over at Clint.

The archer promptly went back to lifting, pretending not to be paying attention to the other occupants of the room.

He wasn't going to be winning any Oscars for the performance.

Doing his best to mask his amusement, Tony squared up his shoulders, feigning innocence. "Your ass," he said, as casually as if he were remarking on the weather. "It's very nice. You sure you don't do pilates?"

Steve's expression shifted from one of indignation to one of discomfort, and even a little bit of irritation. His jaw worked, and his eyes hardened just a bit.

Tony considered it progress.

"That's inappropriate," he said. There was a warning in his tone. _Don't go there,_ it said.

So, naturally, Tony went there.

"Inappropriate? How is that inappropriate? I compliment Natasha's ass on a regular basis, and I'm not even the worst offender. I don't generally hear you piping up when half the Y chromosomes in the room are ogling _her_…unless—" he feigned surprise, "my, my, aren't we the chivalrous one? And by chivalrous, of course, I mean misogynistic chauvinist. Next you'll be telling us to keep her in the kitchen where she—"

"It has nothing to do with her being a dame—" he realized his mistake and practically grimaced before taking what Tony guessed was meant to be a calming breath, "—with her being a _woman_."

"So, it's more about you being a man."

He didn't phrase it like a question, rather like a psychologist would state a conclusion to an unruly patient. Knowingly, patronizingly.

If Steve wasn't flustered before, he certainly was now. His face was still red, and the vein at the base of his neck thrummed a quick rhythm that Tony could see under his sweat-dampened skin. "Tony, I don't know what you're—"

"Or maybe it's about _me_ being a man. Because I've seen plenty of '_dames_' checking out the junk in the trunk without a single complaint. Either way, that's sexist of you, and I'm disappointed. I thought you of all people would be able to rise above gender profiling, and—"

—And Steve was grabbing his stuff. And walking towards – no, scratch that, _past_ – Tony without another word.

"—and this is going to be a little more tricky than I thought," he said once Steve was gone. Sighing, he sat down on the nearest weight bench. He ran a hand through his hair.

When he looked up again, Clint was watching him from his bench, the weights apparently long-forgotten.

"He's going to beat the shit out of you one of these days," Clint said offhandedly. "And you're gonna deserve every damn bit of it."

"I'd ask you to at least _act_ concerned, but I've seen your acting, and frankly, I'm wondering how you lived so long as a spy if you can't—"

Clint let out a bark of a laugh. "Yeah, 'cause that's what the problem is here. _My_ shitty acting. It has nothing to do with you being too chicken shit to man up and just ask the guy out."

"Who said I wanted to ask him out?"

The pointed look Clint shot his way, as if to say "how stupid do you think I am," was all the response necessary.

"No appreciation for subtlety, either," Tony said almost admonishingly, rising from the bench. "You, sir, are a pimple on the collective face of spies everywhere."

"And you're a snip to the collective balls of men everywhere. Just grow a pair and stop antagonizing the poor bastard, or else."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "At the risk of setting myself up for a cliché, _or else what_?"

"Or else _I'll_ beat the shit out of you and save Steve the trouble."

And with that, ultimatum successfully delivered, Clint laid back on the bench and grabbed the bar.

"I'll just go propose to him then, shall I?" Tony said, and under his breath, he added, "I think all your time on rooftops has your brain starved for oxygen."

Though he wasn't entirely sure how Clint managed to free up both his middle fingers from the bar, Tony had to admit he was impressed.

Still, seething exeunt aside, this had been a success. He'd found the line in the sand.

Now he just had to figure out how to go about redrawing it.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time, he actually hadn't meant to say anything.

Tony was in his workshop, putting the finishing touches on a new aeronautics system he wanted to try out for the suit. With any justice – because Tony didn't need luck, just the cosmos to realize he was right like the rest of the world – it would be a little less glitchy than its predecessor. Less prone to random bouts of inconvenient systems failure.

"Jarvis," he said, rising from his stool, "start diagnostics."

"Right away, sir. Diagnostics initiated. Estimated time of completion: seven hours."

"Atta boy. Don't wait up for me." Grabbing his over-shirt off the side of the table, he tossed it over his shoulder and headed out.

He made it just about to the stairs when he heard something…unexpected.

_Clang!_

"Son of a—!"

_Thud_.

Tony wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or amused. If nothing else, he was curious. It sounded like it was coming from the garage, and if he wasn't mistaken, the owner of the voice was a disgruntled-sounding super soldier.

The latter was really all the incentive he needed to investigate.

All the lights were on in the garage when he went in, and though he didn't see anything at first, it wasn't all that hard to find what he was looking for.

A bike Tony recognized as Steve's was out on the floor, and as Tony got a little closer, he saw a pair of legs sticking out under it.

Sure enough, coming around, he found none other than Steve Rogers sitting on the other side, apparently having words with an unruly socket wrench.

"I find it helps if you threaten their family," Tony said, squatting down a few feet away with just a hint of a bemused smile on his face. "Nothing like mob-style negotiation to get those rebellious hand tools in line."

Steve didn't appreciate the humor. "I don't remember it being this complicated to fix a bike."

There was something more to the words, a certain gloom to them, that gave Tony the distinct impression this wasn't about the bike. Well, not just the bike, anyway. The bike here stood for something, reminded Steve of something.

It wasn't all that hard to figure out what: a lot had changed from what Steve remembered.

Tony sighed. Heart-to-hearts weren't really his thing. He wasn't generally good at helping people work through their demons, talking them through them, because it was just that: talking. Talking never did anyone any good.

He'd always been more a fan of the whole "work through it, or ignore it until it works itself out" philosophy.

"Scoot over, Stars'n'Stripes," he said, dropping down onto his ass and nudging Steve with his elbow. Steve gave him a curious look, but to Tony's both surprise and relief, he actually did as he was told. He scooted over a foot or two to give Tony enough room to slide in beside him in front of the bike.

Which Tony, of course, did, and then he held out his hand. "Hand it over," he said. It took Steve a second, but then he dropped the socket wrench into Tony's hand.

"God speed."

"Unnecessary," Tony said, and already he set to work. "See, there's a trick to it. Rather than trying to get the wrench between these pipes—" Tony paused to take the bolt off and move the corresponding piece, "—it's a hell of a lot easier just to take the tops off and do it that way."

"Always a way out, huh?" But there was amusement rather than condescension flashing in Steve's blue eyes.

Tony smiled accordingly. "You're learning."

"I've been doing a lot of that, lately…here, I got this part." Steve held out his hand not unlike Tony had, and Tony surrendered the wrench to Steve's grease-stained hands.

Tony wasn't quite sure why, but there was something decidedly attractive about a man smudged with grease and motor oil.

Especially one that was good with his hands.

He wasn't sure how long they were there, fixing that bike and just…enjoying each other's company. He did know he hadn't felt so comfortable around another person in a long time. Most of the time was passed with idle chatter: they talked about music, about how things had changed from Steve's memory of Glenn Miller to the ACDC Tony had Jarvis play softly on the speakers; they talked about hobbies, and Tony had mentioned the sketchbook he kept seeing Steve with only to chuckle as Steve's face turned a shade of hotrod red; and they talked about anything else that popped into their heads, and Tony enjoyed every minute of it, learning more about _Steve_ as a person than he ever had before.

As if he hadn't already liked the guy enough.

It was…fun. Seeing this side of Steve, when he wasn't wearing the uniform or walking around like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. When he was just a guy with dirt on his hands, sweat on his brow, and a smile on his lips.

Which was probably why, when Steve finished tightening the last bolt over the last piece, Tony felt…disappointed. Checking his watch, he realized they'd been at it for hours. It was nearly six in the morning, but…he wasn't ready to call it quits just yet. On the bike, yes, maybe, but on his time with Steve?

Not quite.

Cue: second time.

"We should do this again."

Steve looked up, one eyebrow arched and his head cocked to the side in a way that Tony decided could only be described as adorable. "Fixing bikes?"

Because not only was Steve the sexiest, strongest, most righteous man Tony had ever met…he was also the most naïve.

"No," Tony said. "I mean _this_. You and me, together. This."

It took Steve a second to process, but his sensibility sensors apparently didn't throw up any red flags, because he smiled.

It was too bad he wasn't in the weapons business, Tony reflected absently, because that smile should've been weaponized.

"Yeah," he said.

But Tony wasn't quite satisfied. "Like, _now_." He nodded to himself, standing and offering Steve a hand up which the other man took, albeit a little more hesitantly. With Steve standing, he turned and grabbed the rag off the stool to wipe his hands. "Yeah, we should. Breakfast, maybe."

And there it was: Tony's next bright idea.

With this little gem of inspiration, Tony turned on his heel to face Steve. "Would you like to go to breakfast with me?"

Judging by the look on Steve's face, the questioning, the doubt, that sensor of his was starting to pick up some signals. "Breakfast?" he said.

"I mean, it's a little early for anything else, but I'm flexible."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Strangely, no. I am one-hundred percent serious. Which isn't something I get to say very often. But no, I am serious. Steve Rogers, I would like to take you to breakfast."

Steve's brows pulled in, a look of confusion and an increasing edge of alarm. "I think you need sleep," he said.

"If you're saying that because you think my asking you on a date – and just to be perfectly clear, that _is_ what I'm doing – is a product of sleep-deprivation, then you've clearly underestimated a) my attraction, and b) my stamina. The latter is hurtful; the former, nigh-unforgivable."

"Tony, I don't know what you're trying to say—"

"I'm not trying to _say_ anything. I've said what I want to say; I'm _trying_ to get you to listen."

"I'm listening!"

"You're hearing," Tony said. "That's different. I know you've heard every attempt I've ever made at bringing you out of your shell, you're just too busy hiding with your head stuck in the 1940s to actually listen."

"I'm not hiding from anything, Stark."

"You're hiding from me!" Tony hadn't meant to snap, but there was only so much denial he could take. Still, he forced himself to tone it back before he kept on. "And you're hiding from yourself. I've seen the way you look at me, I've seen the way you smile when I say something you like and you don't think anyone's watching. I've seen all of it, and so I'm sorry if I'm having a little trouble figuring out why you practically run screaming every time I make an advance if it's not because you're afraid of something. So, what is it, Steve? What is it that makes the great Captain America so scared he tucks his tail between his legs?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I'm head-over-heels in love with a guy that's too scared to even admit he's not in the 1940's anymore. Why, what's yours?"

Steve looked like he'd been struck. All the color drained from his face, and the next time he spoke, it was hardly more than a ghastly whisper. "You can never just leave well enough alone, can you?" he said. "You have to keep pushing, have to get your way, no matter who you screw over in the process."

"I'm not trying to screw you over, Steve," Tony said, reaching a hand for Steve's shoulder. "Believe it or not, I'm actually trying to—"

Steve jerked his shoulder away from Tony's touch. "Just stop it, okay?" he said, and Tony had never heard a more miserable, defeated sound. "Just—just leave me alone."

And for the second time, Tony was stuck standing there as Steve turned his back on him and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time, the world almost exploded.

At least, Tony's almost did.

It was after a battle. A long one, a hard one, one that left a whole block leveled and a cloud of smoke sky-high hanging over New York City. Doom had created the next big machine thinking _it_ would be the one to finally do them in.

The scary thing was how close it had come.

But it hadn't. They'd taken down the small army of Doombots and what Tony had dubbed the Mega-Doombot-From-Hell v.143, people had cheered, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Only for it to catch in their collective heaving chests as they realized they were one Avenger short. Steve was nowhere to be found, not Star or colored stripe of him. Naturally, Tony had panicked. He'd stayed calm, but he'd panicked.

It was kind of one of those things you just had to see.

There was no telling how many piles of rubble they'd turned over, thinking Steve might've gotten trapped under one when everything was falling. They were all calling for him, searching for him.

Finally, after what felt like the longest five minutes of Tony's life, Thor caught a flash of blue through a haze of concrete dust by a hole in the building. And when Steve emerged from it, scuffed up and filthy, but _alive_, Tony, could've kissed him.

Actually…he did. Kiss him, that is. He ran up to him, grabbed his dust- and blood- and soot-smeared face and laid one on him. Months of pent-up affection and frustration poured into the contact in equal force, and Tony knew in that moment that this time, he had gone too far.

Still, the right hook was…unexpected.

Not just to Tony, either. As Steve stormed off with, if not all, then at least _most_ of his usual poise, every other Avenger watched in stunned silence.

Well, every Avenger except Hawkeye. Clint, for one, was shooting Tony a look of "I told you so" so hard it was a wonder it wasn't audible. Kindly, not a one of them said a word as they cleared the scene.

That had been three hours ago. In those three hours, Tony had cleaned up, fixed his suit, made sure his suit was fixed, and just generally done everything he could think of _not_ to think of Steve.

He knew he shouldn't have done what he did. It wasn't that he regretted it – Tony Stark didn't believe in regret – he just probably could've done something differently. Better. He'd let his heart get ahead of his mind, and he'd done something that even he would admit was inappropriate.

Admittedly, it wasn't going very well, this whole "not thinking of Steve" thing. Especially with his split lip. Every time he got a taste of copper on his tongue, it was a reminder, not just of what the fist had felt like, but the lips before it. It was a reminder of how it had felt, finally kissing Steve Rogers. Firm lips, warm, salty from the sweat but otherwise tasting of something so uniquely _Steve_ that he couldn't hope to describe it.

See? Not going so great.

Scowling, Tony tried to turn his attention back to the task at hand: dissecting Doom's new toy. Normally, he went at this kind of thing with all the enthusiasm of a middle schooler cutting into his first fetal pig, but…

Well, he was having trouble getting excited over anything, as it were.

He'd just finished taking apart the last of the outer casings when he felt a strange tickle on the back of his neck. It was the same feeling he got when someone was watching.

Instinctively, he turned around, and to his wrench-dropping surprise, found himself looking at the _last_ person he'd expected to see.

Steve was leaning against the door to his workshop, arms crossed in another one of those plaid abominations he called shirts. His eyes were fixed straight on Tony, even when Tony caught him staring, and though his shoulders sank a little and his gaze flicked downwards briefly, he didn't really move.

For the longest moment, blue matched brown, and neither man blinked.

Finally, though, Steve seemed to come to a decision. Pushing off the wall, he closed a little bit of the distance between them with steps trying so hard to be casual it was almost uncomfortable to watch.

"Is the lip okay?" he said. Again, trying to be casual.

Again, failing.

Tony ran his tongue over the inside of his lip. "That depends," he said thoughtfully. "Are you going to feel guilty if I say no?"

"Honestly?" It should have been ridiculous, a grown man (and a soldier at that) looking _anything_ like a kicked puppy, but…well, that just about summed it up. "Yes."

"Well then," Tony said, leaning back in his chair and donning one of his most winning grins. It still didn't come close to the white-toothed, _aw-shucks_ grin Steve had in his arsenal, but it served its purpose. "_Yes_."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer Steve was expecting. He looked surprised for a second, but quickly recovered with suspicion in the second act. "Are you just saying that so I _don't_ feel guilty?"

"Pretty much."

What? There was no sense lying to the guy.

Besides, it actually got a bit of a chuckle out of him. Put him at ease a little, and he actually made it all the way around the table, coming to sit on the edge of it in front of Tony. His legs were long enough that his feet stayed flat on the ground, and Tony scooted his stool back to give him room.

"I'm sorry," Steve said.

Tony must have looked as confused as he felt, because Steve felt the need to elaborate.

"For punching you, I mean. I shouldn't…I shouldn't have hit you like that. I just..." He trailed off, shrugging like he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Blinking, Tony tried to process what Steve _had_ said. He had just _apologized._ _Steve_ had just apologized _to him_.

"All things considered," he said when he finally found his words again, "I think Legolas was right."

Tony could almost hear the whistle as what he said flew _straight _over Steve's head.

"I deserved it," he said by way of explanation. "Got a great right hook on you, by the way." To emphasize his point, he felt around his swollen lip. It was still bleeding a little, mostly because he couldn't seem to stop chewing on it.

"I overreacted."

"I kissed you." Because for some reason, Tony felt that needed to be said. "I think you're entitled to a little overreaction."

A flush rose to Steve's cheeks, and as if he hadn't been uncomfortable enough before…he looked a lot like a teenager trying to work up the guts to ask his crush to the dance.

"Tony…I—"

But Tony held up a hand. "Listen, Steve, if you just came here to apologize—"

Though not quite a right hook, the pair of lips that crashed into his own were just as unexpected. Awkward, desperate, and entirely too short, the kiss lasted all of about half a second before Steve pulled back.

Things were silent for a moment, Steve gauging Tony's reaction and Tony…well, Tony was kind of trying to figure out his reaction, too. Had Steve just—was that a—had they-?

"I can honestly say I did not see that coming."

Steve narrowed his eyes. "If you're not going to be serious…" Steve turned to leave.

"No," Tony said quickly, practically jumping out of his stool and turning Steve back around. "_No_. I'm serious. Serious as a heart attack, I swear to gods." Because considering he personally knew two, the plurality was only fair. "I just…wasn't expecting that, what with the whole 'I kissed you, you decked me' thing."

"I said I was sorry." Cue kicked puppy round 2, and Tony wondered idly if it would be morally questionable to harness the power of that expression and turn it against their enemies. Even the most heartless of those bastards wouldn't stand a chance.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Like it never happened," he said. "Except, you know, it did. And I meant it, when I kissed you. And I'm thinking you meant it just now when you kissed me." The thought of it made his heart beat a little faster. "That said, I'm thinking you also meant it when you punched me, and not that I hold it against you, but I'd kind of like to know why. My ego demands an explanation for all the shut downs and cold shoulders."

"Your ego?"

Tony shrugged. "I could've said my concern for you. Both are true, I just figured you'd have an easier time getting your head around the ego explanation."

Steve seemed to consider the point, and apparently found it sound.

"So, let's hear it," Tony said. "What makes me enemy number one every time I try to get close to you?"

"You're not the enemy," Steve said quickly.

"So you bust the lips of all your love interests? It's no wonder you're so popular with the ladies."

Vaguely, Tony was aware that he was being more harsh than he meant to be, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to know _why_. He had to know _why_.

Steve averted his eyes. "That's not it."

"Then what is?" Tony said, closing in on Steve until he could _feel_ the rise and fall of his chest with each heated breath. They were both dangerously close to losing their tempers, and if they did, things would go south and fast.

The problem was, there was nothing they could do to stop it.

The fires were already burning; the only thing Tony could do was ride the heat and let it build. "What is it that makes you so afraid of me? Of _this_? Why can't you see that it's okay?"

"Because it's not!"

Both of their eyes widened as Steve finally snapped. Tony had done it, he realized; he'd finally broken through.

Steve wasn't quite so pleased. He seemed to shrink into himself even further, and the most miserable look Tony had ever seen fell over his young face. "I mean…it wasn't. Where I'm from, _this_—" Steve gestured between them, the franticness of his movements betraying his frayed nerves, "—this wasn't normal. It wasn't _right_. It didn't matter if you were in Nazi Germany or Brooklyn, New York…I can't even remember the number of times I read in the newspaper…beatings, lynchings, shootings…anything they could do. There was so much hate, and I…"

Suddenly, it all made sense. The longing, the hiding…Tony had been right: Steve had wanted this. He'd just been too afraid. He was a man out of his time, and old habits, old lessons…they really did die hard.

A wave of guilt hit Tony so strongly it physically hurt. He hadn't even thought…sure, he'd thrown it back in Steve's face a few times, but he hadn't really thought…he hadn't really considered what it was like for Steve, trying to fight through years of ingrained prejudice.

"Shit."

That threw Steve.

"Shit?"

Tony nodded a confirmation. "Shit."

"I don't get it."

"Neither did I. Thus, shit."

"Is that your way of saying 'okay'?"

"More like…my way of saying sorry."

Steve couldn't have looked more surprised if Nick Fury himself had jumped out in drag and started line dancing. "Did you just say sorry?"

"No," Tony said. "I just said 'shit.' There's a difference." And with a small smirk, he leaned in and stole another kiss from Steve. Slow, warm, _passionate_…it was real. It was heartfelt. This time, When Tony leaned back, it wasn't to the _crack_ of a fist or the slack-jawed gape of a confused Captain, rather the happiest pair of blue eyes he'd ever seen.

Just looking at him, he couldn't help smiling as he said, "_Now_, I've said sorry."

Hands on Steve's hips, he pulled the man closer and stole his lips. The last kiss said "I'm sorry"; this one…

It said "I love you."

The third time, the world almost exploded.

At least, Tony's lab almost did.

But sometimes…that's the only way lines are redrawn.


End file.
